“Franz Kafka was born on July 3rd, 1883,” I narrated. “His father, Hermann, was a self- made businessman, who moved to Prague from the provinces. His mother, Julie Löwy, helped her husband out in the shop he founded.”

“Let us go more slowly, Peter’le. To understand a person, we have to consider his (or her) childhood. Who shapes it?”

“That person’s environment. In turn, this depends on the nature of the parents and other circumstances. A child growing up in a diffused environment, such as an unhappy home, often has a bad start. People like Chaplin, who rose to prominence although their childhood was ghastly, are the exception.”

“Let us, then, have a good look at Franz Kafka’s parents,” summed up my ephemeral friend.”

“Kafka’s father – Hermann Kafka (born in 1853) – was the son of a Shochet [Kosher butcher] in Osek: a shtetl in rural Bohemia. He had a difficult childhood, experienced hunger and deprivation, and often had to deliver meat to his father’s clients during the freezing winters. He had very limited education, probably in a Heder. The language spoken in this part of the country was largely Czech; the Jewish population’s lingua franca was Yiddish.”

“When did he leave his parents’ home?”

“In his teens; looking for better prospects. Eventually, he moved to Prague, began working in trade and in due course established a haberdashery (clothing/accessories) store. In 1882, he married Julie Löwy, the daughter of a successful Jewish family. Her father was a textile manufacturer and brewer, who had himself moved from the provinces to Prague. Hermann’s marriage was initiated by a Shadchan [traditional marriage broker]. Presumably, Jacob Löwy was impressed by Hermann’s positive attitude to life. Julie’s dowry enabled Hermann to move his business to the prestigious Old Town Square location. Like many Jews, who moved to Prague from the provinces, he distanced himself from traditional Judaism. His ambition was to be fully accepted by the German speaking middle-class elitist population of Prague.”

“What do the records tell you about Kafka’s mother?”

“She came from an assimilated and affluent Jewish home. Girl schools were available in Prague from around 1848 and, in addition, Julie had private tuition. Socially and intellectually, she was a cut above Hermann. But, as a good traditional wife, she submitted to her husband’s authority and stood by him. They appear to have enjoyed a happy and lasting marriage.”

“Was Hermann’s an affluent family?” asked Theophil.

“Not at this early stage,” I replied. “Well-off would be a more apt description. Franz was the oldest surviving child of the couple. He had three sisters: Elli, Valli and Ottla. He was particularly close to the last one.”

“You are jumping the gun,” observed Theophil. “Was his being the eldest son of particular significance?”

“It was. A Jewish family regarded the ‘first born son’ as the natural heir and expected him to carry the banner – I mean, continue moving the family from strength to strength. In more than one way, he became the family’s centre.”

“You said that Kafka’s mother was busy in the business. So, who brought Kafka up?”

“He had Czech speaking nannies. In consequence, he became bilingual. Notably, the German dialect, laced with Yiddish words, which he spoke at home was known as Mauscheldeutsch.”

“What type of stories was he told as a young boy? You see, Peter’le, children thrive on fables told to them.”

“The Brothers Grimm stories had, by then, been translated to Czech. There was also a budding Czech nationalist literature. Whilst we do not have conclusive records, it seems likely that Franz’s governesses told him the existing tales, both German and Czech. In addition, his mother would have told him common Jewish folklore stories, including Hassidic yarns. Hermann might have related tales with moral implications, such as the Golem.”

“Actually, Peter’le: how have you managed to familiarise yourself with Kafka’s childhood? You have read several biographies. What else?”

“We have Franz Kafka’s letter to his father. But I have reservations about its reliability. You see, Kafka wrote it in 1919, when he was 36 years old, that is, when he became middle aged. It is a very long communication: I have read it several times in German and have also listened to an English audiobook. The fact is that Kafka never sent it to his father. Initially, he asked his mother to deliver it but, when she declined, he kept it amongst his papers. Max Brod discovered it after Kafka’s demise.”

“What disturbs you about the letter, Peter’le? Some of Kafka’s biographers treat it as reliable.”

“I do not like its tone. Effectively, Kafka seeks to blame his father for what Kafka considered his own defects and failures. When I went through this letter, I recalled Oscar Wilde’s De Profundis, in which he seeks to blame Alfed Douglass (Bozzy) for his misfortunes. Worse still, Kafka failed to deliver the missive to his father. In a way, Kafka’s father is relegated to a position like Joseph K’s, of The Trial, who is unable to discover the nature of the charges brough against him. In a sense, Hermann is placed in even greater jeopardy: he is unaware of being ‘charged’. Franz remains as unreachable as The Castle’s authorities.”

“Any further issue respecting this letter?”

“There is, Maestro. Kafka admired Dostoevsky and was influenced by him. Hermann Kafka of the letter resembles the tyrannical pater familias – Fyodor Karamazov. I suspect Kafka was influenced by The Brothers Karamazov. In real life, Kafka’s father may have been loud and forceful but not imposing or overbearing.”

“I get your point,” affirmed Theophil. “Well, do you have better authorities?”

“Some of the records are neatly summarised by Reiner Stach. However, I used an AI engine to access records which, without it, would have to be looked up in Prague. I found the engine excellent. It enabled me to discover details about Hermann Kafka, about Julie and, in general, about the assimilated Jews in Prague.

“You did. But then, were these people so different from other groups of assimilated Jews? Here I can augment what you have discovered. For a positive assessment, we have to reflect on the Enlightenment [dubbed Haskalah in Hebrew]. Jews in many centres in Central and even Eastern Europe made a conscious effort to integrate in their home countries. One of the leaders of this movement – J.L. Gordon – suggested that a member of the community should be a Jew at home but a Man [Adam] outside it.”

“You are right,” I conceded. “But integration was partial even in the cases of assimilated Jews. They tended to intermarry. Hermann Kafka was furious when his third daughter, Ottla, married out. And Shalom Aleichem tells us how Tavyeh cut off his daughter Hava, when she eloped with a Cossack. Full integration was never envisaged. The need to remain apart, was one of the factors that underscored Zionism.”

“Let us then sum up,” approbated Theophil. “Franz Kafka’s home was secular. In his famous letter, he complains that his father did not direct him to Judaism. He tells us that Hermann went to the synagogue only about four times a year and, even on those occasions, kept aloof. Factually, this is correct. But is the charge sound?”

“I don’t think so,” I averred. “Hermann had moved away from orthodox, traditional, Judaism. If Franz were drawn to it, there was nothing to stop him from pursuing his interest. And I can think of a vivid example. A friend of mine, M., was an atheist. His son, though, moved back to traditional orthodox Judaism. Father and son ended up by disowning one another. It is possible that both were too rigid. Still, the event shows that the road back remains open. Franz Kafka chose not to take it. Can Hermann be blamed for this? After all, he did take his son to the synagogue from time to time.”

“I have to agree with you there,” conceded Theophil. “Further, attempts to induce Kafka to turn to Judaism and Zionism, made by friends he met later in life, were thwarted by his passive resistance. The decision not to join any movement was true to his orientation. Well, are there any further factors of his youth which need be mentioned at this stage?”

“I think so,” I volunteered. “You see, the family lived in rented flats for years. These were small. Kafka shared a room with his sisters until 1907, when the family moved to a very large flat. To me, Maestro, this sounds claustrophobic and oppressive.”

“But was this uncommon? You, Peter’le, see matters through the lens of an only child of the 20th century. Even so, when did you get a room of your own?”

“In my early teens.”

“Precisely,” nodded Theophil. “And in Prague of the 19th century, children usually had to share a room. Even friends of Kafka, who were sons of more affluent parents, seldom had a room of their own. Young Franz’s lot was the norm. Still, it had certain implications. He had to do his homework in the presence of others and, when he started to write, he often had to proceed late at night when there was no noise or other interruption.”

For a while both of kept reflecting. Eventually, Theophil restarted our investigation. Turning to Kafka’s physical condition, he pointed out that, during his early childhood, Kafka was sickly and physically weak. This reminded me that I, too, had been an unhealthy child, often confined to bed and unable to play with other children.

“I happen to know that this had a profound effect on your own life. How about our Kafka?” asked Theophil.

“Actually, I was lucky in one sense: the children of one of our neighbours visited me daily. In consequence, I was able to make friends and, in a sense, mix. Kafka was not so lucky. He spent most of his time with his nannies. Still, his mother taught him reading and the alphabet. This meant that when Kafka started to go to primary school he was, in a way, ahead of his contemporaries. But he did not meet other children before going to school. In consequence, he did not learn how to mix. Worse still, his mother gave birth to two boys, who died in infancy. We do not know what sort of direct effect this had on young Franz. But undoubtedly, it drove him even closer to the centre.”

“Quite so,” nodded Theophil. “Right from the start, Kafka had little contact with other children. This was significant: he did not realise during his tender years that, all in all, he was just one of a crowd. I do believe that this explains a great deal about his adult life. Kafka himself sought to put the blame on his domineering father. But, like you, I have my doubts about the 1919 letter. In fact, parents tended to be disciplinarian during Kafka’s period. Notably, Kafka does not allege that his father had ever resorted to corporeal punishment.”

“I noticed this,” I confirmed. “And look at his sisters. Ottla left the parent’ home, married out and ran a farm in Zürau. Franz remained in his parents’ flat until his married sisters, Eli and Vali, returned home as their husbands were mobilised during WWI. I surmise from this that Franz lacked the courage to leave. His salary was by then more than adequate.”

“What are you telling me, Peter’le?”

“To my mind, the contrast is striking: Ottla acted, Franz reflected. Her gesture of autonomy became for him a mirror of the freedom he could imagine but never fully attain. His “Letter to His Father,” with its wounded tone – at times bordering on melodrama – underscores his paralysis. The difference between Franz and Ottla defines the emotional core of Franz Kafka’s tragedy: she lived the freedom about which he could only write. I am further annoyed because, effectively, Kafka wanted to have the cake and eat it. I, too, remained in my parents’ flat even after completing my university studies. But I did not biker.”

“You are getting emotive, Peter’le. This won’t do. Our aim is to ascertain the facts. Emotive outbursts are counterproductive. We must pursue a distanced, analytical approach. Well, let us turn to his primary school days.”

“Not much is known, except school records. Kafka enrolled in the German speaking Deutsche Knabenschule. He completed his five years there with distinction. He did particularly well in German language and literature. Czech language was a compulsory subject. It firmed Kafka’s reading and speaking knowledge of the tongue; but he did not acquire a genuine writing ability.”

“Did his spell in primary school shape his future life?” asked Theophil.

“A difficult point. Kafka was six years old when he started to go to school and was about ten years old when he moved to secondary. These years are important in the life of a growing person: the home is no longer his (or her) entire world.”

“A sound precept,” noted Theophi. “Well, did his orientation form itself during these years?”

“Difficult to say. By then, he might have realised that he was bound to remain an outsider. Pupils from Czech homes (and there were a few) would have regarded him as part of the German population. Those from German middle-class families, regarded him a Jew. And his father’s perfunctory approach to Judaism meant that traditional Jews would have treated his as being on the margin. I suspect that, during this period, Kafka sensed that he was an odd man out.”

“Is there any evidence supporting you conclusion?”

“An indirect, but significant one: there is no record of any lasting friendships he formed during these years. Further, Hermann Kafka did not foster relations with his own siblings. Franz did not know them. And there were no meaningful communications with his mother’s family.”

“Well, you have made your point. So, in a sense, we have completed our investigation of the ‘head’ of our ‘statute’. What can we then say about it? Was it ‘good gold’?”

“I suspect that it was gilded rather that gold. All in all, Kafka’s childhood was common but not distinguished. He was a good pupil and an obedient son. On the negative side we note his having been sickly at this early stage and, further, his feeling of alienation and segregation may be anchored in this period. So, perhaps, the ‘head’ was polished brass.”

To my surprise, Theophil change his guise to his Freud image and said: “Well spoken; but let me emphasize one point: a child gets used to having some home comforts, such as regular meals, adequate attention and family warmth. These are often overlooked in Kafka’s case. But they are of importance: any feeling of social alienation is mitigated by the sense of having a home. Kafka, as we know, remained within its walls.”

“I agree,” I told my mentor. “Here Kafka’s writings augment what you indicated. Joseph K (in The Trial) and K (in The Castle) remain largely unaffected by their respective entanglements. In a sense, they remain ‘at home’. And that home is traceable to Kafka’s childhood.”